


Right Place, Wrong Time

by danielosbourne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Rating will change, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-28 16:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30142254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielosbourne/pseuds/danielosbourne
Summary: There’s nothing noble about what Bucky’s trying to do here: arm himself with a beautiful man to save face in front of the asshole who made him an unwitting homewrecker. This is about Bucky’s pride. Which normally would not be a cause worthy of Sam Wilson’s heroics, but the man does love drama.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

“I need a favor.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his eggs, “Ask Natasha.”

“Would if I could. But it has to be you, Sam.” No matter how hard Sam tries to pretend otherwise, he likes a bit of drama. Bucky’s willing to give it to him. Bucky’s prepared to _beg_.

“As much as I’d like to believe I’m capable of anything Nat hasn’t secretly mastered, I’ve seen her open a pickle jar with her thighs, so.”

“See, I can’t ask her in part _because_ of what’s between her thighs.”

Sam’s fork clatters against his plate, “Man, I am eating breakfast. I don’t need to hear your nasty talk at the table. And no matter what Riley told you happened freshman year, I don’t swing that way. Not even for someone as pretty as you. So if it’s my dick you’re after, you should think about reinstalling Grindr instead.”

“Your dick won’t be necessary. In fact, genitals are irrelevant. I just need your general manliness. The breathtaking physique and willingness to bullshit for a good cause are happy coincidences.”

“What for?”

“A date to the company picnic.”

Sam winces.

“I know, I know. But, we’re going to the _beach_ , Sam. They booked us some fancy resort hotel in The Hamptons next weekend. It’s a free vacation.”

“A S.H.I.E.L.D. vacation.”

“At the beach! No suits, no ties. C’mon. No one can pull off those little Euro-cut swim trunks like you. Let S.H.I.E.L.D. buy you a drink and some sunshine.”

“Brock will be there?” asks Sam with a raised brow, turning ever so slightly toward Bucky. _Drama_. Can’t resist it.

“Yeah, of course he’s gonna fuckin’ be there. And they want us to bring our _families_ , Sam. Partners, kids, that sort of thing. He’s definitely gonna bring his wife.”

Sam crosses his arms—his therapist pose—and for once, Bucky’s thrilled to see it. Because there’s nothing noble about what Bucky’s trying to do here: arm himself with a beautiful man to save face in front of the asshole who made him an unwitting homewrecker. This is about Bucky’s pride. Which normally, would not be a cause worthy of Sam Wilson’s heroics, but the man loves drama. And hates Brock Rumlow. Hated him even before Bucky discovered the secret wife. And instead of being annoyed that Sam was once again right about something, he’s going to take full advantage.

“I got conditions,” says Sam.

“I’m sure you do.”

“No tongue.”

“You think I’m gonna stick my tongue in your mouth at a work event?”

“Like S.H.I.E.L.D.—and you in particular—don’t get up to freaky shit on the regular.”

“Your virtue is safe with me. It’s just—he humiliated me, Sam,” which is true enough, even if the puppy dog eyes are a bit of an act, “This isn’t about showing off or trying to get back at him, I just don’t want to spend the whole weekend hating myself.”

It’s a pathetic appeal to Sam’s compulsion to fix people. Bucky’s had his fair share of messy break-ups, but he’s never allowed himself to be so deceived before. And for what? A frat boy’s sense of humor and athletic but uninspired sex. It had been so _convenient_ is the thing. S.H.I.E.L.D’s fraternization policy prohibits those kinds of relationships between agents, but the hours and travel and mind fuckery of the job leave few other options. The consistency of their hook-ups had given Bucky reason to hope for the first time in a long time he could sustain something normal, something good. So, naturally the guy turned out to be a lying adulterer.

“It’s going to be a little bit about showing off,” adds Sam with a wink, “I got your back, Barnes. You mind getting the dishes? And I’m thinking take-out tonight. Sushi? On you.”

If Bucky were asking Nat, she’d demand a blood oath and his first born. He’s happy to pick up a few extra chores and comp a meal.

* * *

“What the hell, Sam?”

“What the hell do you mean _what the hell_?” Sam freezes in the doorway, glancing down at himself, “I look good.”

“You look great!” Bucky clarifies, “You look…fancy.”

Sam always looks good, in a low maintenance, coming or going from the gym sort of way, but Bucky’s pretty sure that’s a Gucci logo on the polo he’s wearing.

“My sister thinks she’s doing me some kind of favor with these clothes every Christmas, like I’m spending my weekends at a country club in Palm Springs instead of playing Call of Duty on the couch next to you. But whatever, your gain. Thought you’d appreciate the sugar daddy vibes.” Sam does a slow spin. He does look good. He looks like a stranger.

“You know you don’t have to…play gay. We can just hang out this weekend, like normal. Give vague answers about our relationship, if anyone even asks.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m wearing a shirt with a collar, not a rainbow flag. Wasn’t trying to play at anything except having ever stepped foot on a golf course. Second of all, you work with spies. They don’t have to ask.”

“You think we need, like, a cover story?”

“Not an elaborate one. We live in the same building, shared some war stories, became friends. You know, the truth. At some point we got together. How long ago, you think?”

“Dunno. Since I broke it off with Brock, I guess. Two months.” It’s a ridiculous concept. Bucky’s rebound behavior has evolved over the years from the anonymous club hookups of his youth to Ben & Jerry’s and catatonia.

“Okay, you got any specific requests? Want me to hold your hand? Call you Babe or Sweet Cheeks, or—”

“Sweet Cheeks, _please_ ,” begs Natasha, exiting her bedroom with a duffel bag in hand, “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you say it front of Fury.”

Sam’s eyes go wide.

“She’s coming?” he whisper-shouts in Bucky’s direction.

“Yes? I mean, she works for S.H.I.E.L.D. too, I can’t exactly stop her.”

Nat is an expert in worming her way out of these kinds of “morale-boosting” engagements. She’s good enough at her job that no one gives her flack for skipping the extra curriculars. Bucky has a sneaking suspicion her attendance this weekend has something to do with wanting a front row seat to the circus act he’s roped Sam into. Which is unfortunate, because Sam gets _weird_ around Natasha.

“You think I’d miss a weekend of watching my coworkers succumb to umbrella drinks?” she asks, “What do you think is going to be the most popular song at the karaoke booth? _Every Breath You Take_? _Secret Agent Man_?”

She’s definitely coming just to fuck with them. Sam’s expression suggests he regrets everything. Bucky ignores them both, returning to the topic at hand.

“Let’s just stick with Bucky. Only so many stupid nicknames a man can get away with.”

“Sure thing, Sugar Lips,” Sam shoots back with a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Pepper’s expression is all too familiar as she hangs up the phone, and damn Tony Stark for turning such a talented woman into a professional apologizer.

“He’s not coming,” says Steve. It’s not a question.

“No,” she admits, skipping the spiel. It’s not like Steve hasn’t heard it before, “But, you know, the house is already stocked for the weekend, and the weather is supposed to be perfect. Why don’t you stay? Enjoy the beach, raid the single malts Tony keeps in the study. It’s the least we can offer for the inconvenience.”

Steve’s first instinct is to say no, fuck you very much. He’s done with Stark Industries and empty, extravagant gestures in lieu of basic respect and a proper contract. Being dragged out to the ass-end of Long Island was obviously a deliberate distraction. But Pepper’s only a very kind and skilled messenger. It would be rude to take out his frustration at Tony on her, even though he suspects she’s paid handsomely to do just that. And practically speaking, his ass is numb from the 2-hour ride out. There are worse places to waste a weekend than an enormous private beach house in the Hamptons, even if Tony’s attempt to stuff as much Malibu as possible into a former Kennedy compound is offensive to Steve’s aesthetic senses.

Before he can work out how to accept the offer while maintaining any semblance of pride, Pepper is quietly sliding a silver house key across the conference table. 

“You have my number if you need anything at all. JARVIS is available to you, as well.”

Steve wrinkles his nose at the reminder. Modern marvel or not, omnipresent AI will never not creep him out.

“Thank you, Miss Potts,” says Steve, though her brows lower at the formality.

“Would you like me to reschedule?”

“Let’s…not,” Steve decides easily. He’ll take the luxury consolation vacation and move on from this business. Open up small scale commissions again. Go back to worrying about money instead of the time and sanity Stark demands of him.

“I understand,” she extends a hand to Steve, practiced solicitude on her face, “It was a pleasure working with you, Steve.”

* * *

Tempting as a sip of scotch worth more than his rent is, it’s not quite noon yet, so Steve slips off his boots and wanders out the back terrace, a mere 50 feet or so through postcard perfect dunes to the Atlantic Ocean. The water is quiet today, cool waves barely breeching his ankles where he stands at its edge. A few feathered clouds are scattered high in the sky, the sort that promise a showstopping sunset later in the day.

He can feel his perfectly righteous anger fading already.

He’s never had a beach to himself before. He used to tag along with Bucky’s family to Coney Island every summer up until high school, the blistering sand always bursting with people and noise and the mingled scents of sunscreen and deep-fried boardwalk food. Steve wasn’t a good swimmer then, so it was often left to him to defend the bit of territory they’d staked out for their towels. A task he undertook with the determination of a scrawny, sun-burnt rottweiler. Sweaty and crowded as those days were, they remain some of his best memories.

He’d followed a crush out to Fire Island one spring break in college, years later, only for said crush to run off with a middle-aged yacht chef the first night. He hopped on a return bus before ever making it to the beach. He remembers that experience less fondly.

And here he is now, peak season, perfect weather, on some of the most valuable private property on the Eastern Seaboard. Alone. Steve’s never minded a bit of solitude—prefers it on occasion—but some experiences are meant to be shared. He wishes his Ma could be here. Or even that he was back with the masses on Coney Island. He’s never been as an adult, too afraid to taint his idyllic childhood impressions.

He’s tempted to walk the shoreline, but supposes that’s likely to be trespassing in these parts. Strange to think a person can own a bit of an ocean.

He collects his boots and lets Google Maps guide him towards town instead, happy to stretch his legs and gawk at the architecture. As he gets closer to the public beach, there are more businesses than mansions. Surf shops and art galleries. A frou-frou coffee shop with a patio mural Steve can appreciate if not the price of their matcha lemonade. At the far end of a traffic circle near the beach entrance is a small boutique hotel, the busiest bit of the town center by far. The building’s façade is chic in a way that suggests Steve will be sorely out of place if he goes inside. But there’s a bar visible through the lobby windows, bustling with people and a bad idea starts slithering its way through Steve’s brain about the ways in which he could find some company for the evening.

He’s not very experienced at picking up strangers, though he’s got plenty of experience turning them down. He’s been single for long enough now, the thought of saying yes no longer fills him with guilt or fear, but a kind of antsy curiosity. He’s still a relatively young man, unattached, with what’s likely one of the priciest estates in East Hampton to himself for the evening, if not now, fucking _when_?

Steve’s not underdressed, necessarily. Plenty of other patrons are in jeans, only they manage to look professionally styled in a way he’s never been able to achieve with his own off-the-rack budget. But when the hostess doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the sight of him, he makes his way to the bar inconspicuously as he can for a man his size, trying to get a lay of the land. Before he’s made a full assessment, his eyes land on a petite redhead placing an order a few feet away. She’s beautiful, and nicely shaped, but the moment they make eye contact the sharpness of her gaze nearly takes his breath away at how much it reminds him of Peggy. He’s not sure he’d be able to shake the association even if he could convince her he’s worth her time. Just behind her is an athletically built black man with kind eyes and a goofy grin—also tempting, if not for the way the man’s eyes follow the redhead around.

He needs to quit ogling and order something anyway.

“Bucky, what are you having?”

Steve whips his head in time to confirm it’s the same man he ogled speaking. Loudly, because whoever he’s speaking to must be seated at one of the booths on the opposite wall. _Bucky_. Maybe it’s a popular name in The Hamptons. The chances of vintage-y cowboy names being on trend with the summer home set have got to be higher than running into Bucky Barnes—his Bucky—right here and now.

Steve pushes off the bar, not bothering to be cool about it, and scans the booths for a familiar face. He hasn’t seen Bucky since he was fifteen years old. Steve’s not sure he could recognize himself from that age.

“Whatever’s on tap,” a man in the corner booth shouts back over the chatter. And Steve sags, because there’s no way. Stupid to even think—but then the guy runs a hand through the hair framing his face, and _I’ll be damned_. If you melted all the baby fat off the Bucky from Steve’s memories and replaced it with 70 lbs of muscle, a chiseled jaw and designer stubble, that…that’s Bucky Barnes.

Steve’s tried to reconnect over the years. Through Google searches, mostly, since all of his old contact information proved outdated. But there are a gazillion men named James Barnes in the world, and none of their social media profiles were ever Bucky. Only a single blurb in an Indiana newspaper about a spectacular right field catch made during a high school championship game checked out. Then nothing. Steve’s mostly relieved to know he’s not dead.

The redhead slides into the seat across from Bucky. Her eyes narrow into warning signs when she notices Steve approaching, but he’s never cared less about being rude. Bucky catches her staring and follows her gaze.

“Bucky? It's Steve Rogers,” he says, hoping to skip the awkward wait of being recognized, but Bucky’s face pinches up anyway, like Steve’s not quite speaking English.

“It’s uh, been a while. Not sure if you remember me—”

“I remember _Steve_ ,” says Bucky, eyes roaming accusingly over the length of Steve’s body, “ _You’re_ Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I remember you smaller,” he says so softly Steve’s not sure if he’s meant to hear.

“It’s been fifteen years, Buck. We grew up,” an understatement, to say the least, “You look good.”

Bucky’s face crinkles into a smile, and that’s familiar at least, even if he looks more stunned than anything else. But then the guy from the bar is sliding in next to Bucky with their drinks, sliding _all_ the way next to Bucky, draping an arm around his shoulders and flashing a big toothy grin Steve’s way that’s perfectly friendly despite the possessive posturing.

The twinge of disappointment Steve feels is frankly embarrassing. Given Bucky’s cringe and Red’s smirk, he’s not the only that thinks so. Steve’s already fucked this up. He only wanted to say hi. Marvel at the coincidence and their continued existence. Let Bucky know that he’s remembered, and important, and…missed.

“Hey man, how’s it going? I’m Sam.”

“Steve Rogers,” he says, taking the hand offered, “I’m an old friend of Bucky’s.”

“No way! From the Army or something?”

“N—no. Elementary school,” Steve looks at Bucky, “You joined the Army?”

Bucky looks down at the table then, his expression unreadable, “Shit, Steve. There’s a lot we should catch each other up on.”

“Yeah. Yes. We should.” Steve’s desperate to do just that, but this situation is feeling less and less like the right time and place, “I, uh, could leave you my number? If you want. And we’ll catch up sometime.”

Bucky hands over his phone a little dazedly as Steve tries not to shudder at how impersonal this all feels. Maybe too much time has passed. The extra eyes on them certainly aren’t helping.

“I’ll call you,” says Bucky, and Steve wishes he knew this man well enough to know if he means it.

With plans of a hook-up thoroughly derailed for the evening, Steve suddenly needs to be far away from this bar. He forces a smile while handing the phone back.

“It was good to see you, Buck.”

“I’ll call you, okay?” repeats Bucky, a little frantically as Steve turns for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will remain a pretty light fic, folks but I've added some content warnings to the end notes if you'd like to 👀 before continuing.

“Fuck,” Bucky drops his forehead to the table. “Fuck.”

“You alright there?” asks Sam. He has to whisper it in his ear with how close he’s sitting.

“That was _Steve Rogers_ ,” groans Bucky.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. Did he used to shove you into lockers or something? Do I need to kick his ass?”

“Kick his ass? He’s the size of a tank.” Bucky can’t believe it. He’s familiar enough with the transformational powers of a consistent fitness regimen, but Steve’s new body can’t be attributed to anything less than witchcraft.

“Yeah, there’s no way. I was just, you know, being a good boyfriend.”

“Ugh, he thinks you’re my _boyfriend_.”

“Well, yeah. And so do Mr. and Mrs. Rumlow over there. That’s the point of this, right?” asks Sam, giving his shoulders a demonstrative squeeze, “Or did I just cockblock you? ‘Cuz wingman is a totally different vibe. You need to warn me, man.”

Brock’s enjoying happy hour with his wife and a few other Strike Team members on the opposite side of the bar, and Bucky can’t for the life of him remember why he cared at all up until a few moments ago.

“I don’t even know. This is stupid. I’m stupid.”

Sam and Natasha are tellingly silent. Perhaps the kindest response they can give.

“Is he an ex?” Nat asks eventually.

“No,” says Bucky. Because that final summer in Brooklyn doesn't count. They were too young. Steve would have gone along with any dumb idea Bucky had back then. Besides, it was preceded by a decade of friendship so formative and pure that Bucky’s never come close to recreating anything like it in adulthood.

“You could have asked him to stay,” says Sam.

Bucky wanted to. Running into Steve after fifteen years is a big deal no matter how fucking bizarre the circumstances and he hates that he defaulted to panic. Hates that he always defaults to panic.

The first thing Bucky did when he made his way back to New York was look Steve up. Found an Instagram page filled with his art: charcoal sketches of familiar scenery like kids playing in the fountains at Prospect Park and ferries crossing the East River. Beautiful oil pastel portraits of faces he didn’t recognize. Steve had come a long way since passing unflattering doodles of their teachers during class. There were few actual photographs on the feed, but the most recent one was of two hands entwined—sparkling diamond front and center—with a caption reading “She said yes!”

Bucky’s _shock_ shocked the hell out of him. Steve had been his best friend, his first love, and like a sledgehammer, his first heartbreak. But that had been a lifetime ago. He’d met all his own archaic milestones of manhood since—sex, war, a handful of bar fights, steady paychecks—but five minutes back in Brooklyn and he was sulking over Steve Rogers like he never left.

It was best to wait to get in touch. Wait until whenever residual teen angst dissipated enough to be properly delighted at the thought of Steve in a tux. Wait until he felt some sense of pride in his life or his career or a relationship to want to share it. But the years just passed by.

Bucky excuses himself to the bathroom, climbing over Sam with his phone clenched tightly against his chest. He opens up Steve’s newly entered contact information as soon as the door swings closed behind him.

Steve can’t be more than half a block away. It’s too soon to text. Asking him to come back would sound too desperate. Crazy. Confusing.

“Hey,” says a voice behind him.

Bucky doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t need to. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I say hi?” asks Brock, the husk of his voice sends goosebumps down Bucky’s back, although for entirely different reasons than it used to.

“I think it’s best if you don’t.”

“This doesn’t have to be complicated, Bucky.”

“What doesn’t? What are you doing?”

Brock’s hand slides up into the gap of fabric at Bucky’s hip, warm on his skin and deceptively gentle. It’s the kind of shit that got Bucky going once. Stolen moments, teasing touches. Brock wanting him.

“I’m with someone,” Bucky forces out.

“Doesn’t matter.” Brock snakes his hand forward to graze at the top of Bucky’s fly.

“I’ve been pretty fucking clear it matters to me,” says Bucky, spinning around. There’s something unfamiliar in the way Brock looks at him now. Might even be hurt in those eyes. Whatever it is doesn’t bring Bucky an ounce of comfort or satisfaction. And it doesn’t change his mind. He pulls away without another word.

Sam’s waiting just outside of the door when Bucky bolts through it, brow arched like he’s silently asking if a body needs burying.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Bucky sucks in a deep breath, “You mind if I grab some air real quick?”

He can see Sam’s concern deepen, but he nods and Bucky scrambles toward the daylight.

It’s absurdly nice out to be indoors anyway. He lets salty air replace the lingering scent of Brock’s cologne. Ocean breeze, noisy gulls, freshly waxed surfboards strapped to freshly waxed cars gingerly making their way around the town circle. This is better. There are a million overpriced cocktail lounges in the city that could have hosted a happy hour. But S.H.I.E.L.D. rarely misses an opportunity to send its agents to a destination only to strip all joy and local flavor from the experience.

“Bucky?”

This time he plays it far less cool, twirling so fast and gracelessly he whacks his metal arm against the parking meter behind him.

“You’re here.”

“Grabbed some lemonade across the street. Saw you run out,” Steve glances anxiously at the prosthetic “Are you okay?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“No—I mean, I have questions about the arm—but, like, in general? Are you okay? You look a little freaked out.”

“Oh,” and then a hysterical little giggle escapes, because, _yes_ , “I’m just surprised, I think? But it’s good to see you. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear. You caught me at a weird time.”

Also weird is having to look _up_ to meet Steve’s eyes, less filtered by those absurdly long lashes at this angle.

“Sorry if I interrupted,” he says, rounding his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself small again. He doesn’t succeed, just looks sad. Shit, Bucky made Steve _sad_.

“You didn’t!” shouts Bucky. Why is he shouting? “It’s a stupid work thing. I see most of the people in that bar every day. I wanted—I don’t know—I was gonna come out here and call you or something.”

“And say what?” Steve’s voice is flat, skeptical.

“Hadn’t thought that far, pal. Just felt wrong watching you walk away after thirty seconds.”

Steve’s face goes a little funny at that.

“So,” Bucky continues, “You free?”

“When?”

“Now?”

“Yes,” Steve answers quickly, “What about you, though? Your work thing—”

“Is not that important.” Hill might not even notice. Fury won't care. Nat can keep Sam company. Worst case scenario: everyone is annoyed. No one suffers. “You wanna walk the beach?”

Finally, Steve smiles. Lopsided and golden just like Bucky remembers.

* * *

“Why is your lemonade green?”

Steve sputters mid sip, and Bucky wants to kick himself, because honestly, of all the things to ask.

“There’s matcha in it. They didn’t have any plain.”

 _Because plain lemonade is for poor people_. Bucky almost says it out loud, but it occurs to him that Steve might take offense to rich people jokes now that he’s the type of guy that spends his weekends ...here.

“You come to The Hamptons often?” he tries instead.

“First time,” says Steve, scanning the horizon. Neither of them is properly dressed for a beach stroll, but Bucky would rather let sweat drip down his ass crack than run back to the hotel to change. This moment still feels fragile after bungling so badly right off the bat. He hopes Steve is wearing sunscreen.

The beach is busy but not too crowded, with plenty of paths cleared for walking. They pick one at random, making it only a few yards before they’re interrupted by a rogue frisbee.

“You have any?” Steve asks suddenly, staring after the kid who scrambles to retrieve it.

Jesus, he’s asking about _children_. Way to break the ice.

“No,” says Bucky, aiming for neutral. He’s _barely_ 30 and only recently upgraded from a mattress on the floor to a proper bed frame and definitely had cereal for dinner more than once last week. Steve could have produced a whole baseball team by now so he doesn’t want to sound alarmed at the idea, “You?”

“Not yet.”

Which raises some further questions but frankly Bucky would rather ask more about the lemonade. It’s overwhelming how much they don’t know about each other now.

“So, you joined the Army, huh?”

Naturally Steve skips to the sorest subject. It was inevitable as soon as Sam let it slip, but Bucky’s not used to talking much about his service outside of therapy. And he hasn’t a clue how to explain it to someone he spent so much effort trying to convince the military-industrial complex was predatory and evil and sure to send anyone who participated in it to an early grave or the darkest depths of hell.

If Bucky had been a tad anxious as a child, it’s only because his best friend had the self-preservation skills of a honey-bee.

He recites the facts with little fanfare: enlisting out of high school, sniper school, making sergeant. He’s deliberately vague about his time overseas, in part because there are trauma-induced gaps in his memory and in part because it’s fucking horrible to talk about. Blessedly, Steve doesn’t press for details. He doesn’t say anything else for a while, either.

“You know, I tried to enlist.”

Not the least bit surprising, but Bucky can’t help the icy hot flash of terror. All that nagging for nothing.

“Got about as far as you expect,” admits Steve.

“Your lungs still give you trouble?”

“Not as bad as when I was a kid. Can’t pass a pulmonary function test, though.”

“You look so healthy,” comes out of Bucky’s mouth before he can think better of it. Steve’s expression sours immediately.

“Puberty doesn’t cure asthma, Buck.”

“Shit, I know. Sorry. You look—you look good, Steve. I was hoping you felt good, too.”

“I feel fine. I take care of myself, work out, see a lot of specialists. Spend too much time fighting with insurance, but I do alright.”

“And your heart?”

Nothing Steve used to hate more than Bucky’s mother hen routine, but on the laundry list of ailments Steve’s heart always ranked highest in keeping Bucky up at night. Maybe if Steve hadn’t asked about the Army right off, he’d show a little more tact.

“Better,” Steve answers dutifully, “Had a procedure a few years back to fix the arrhythmia.”

“A procedure? Like surgery?” Bucky’s own heart goes a bit wonky at the thought.

“Buck, it’s fine. It was years ago. I’m completely asymptomatic now.”

“You had _heart_ surgery.” The _I wasn’t there_ going unsaid.

“And you lost an arm!” Steve shoots back, much too loudly. It’s familiar—Steve’s rage, his bitterness toward being treated as fragile—but the effect is entirely different now that he’s twice his former size. It sends a perverse little thrill through Bucky, despite how horribly off the rails this attempt at a reunion has gone.

“Hey, we made it,” Bucky tries to sound reassuring. Reaches out his flesh arm to pat Steve’s—a friendly, grounding gesture.

“Yeah, we did,” Steve agrees, looking a bit sheepish about his outburst, “I really am okay now. Are you?”

Bucky nods, which isn’t the whole truth but applies well enough to the arm.

Used to be the easiest thing in the world, spilling his guts to Steve Rogers. Ridiculous to hope they might get that back so easily, but he didn’t expect it to feel impossible.

“I think we should start walking back to the hotel,” says Bucky.

Steve's face falls, devastated.

“No! It’s just—,” Bucky huffs a laugh, “You’re burning up, pal. I’ll lend you a hat and some sunscreen, alright? Otherwise you’re gonna end up like you did that one summer. After the YMCA camp? You had to put a towel over your pillow for a week so you wouldn't smear aloe all over the place.”

Steve lets out a groan, at the realization or the memory, Bucky’s not sure. Might be built like a linebacker, but Steve’s complexion is still delicate as the driven snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:
> 
> -Brock's a creep, not a predator but that might be unclear for a hot second.  
> -Vague discussions of war trauma & chronic illness.


End file.
